If You Want Me: The Magister Series Book 1: A Billionaire Romance

by July Hall

  Bradley hadn’t shown up at work today. No doubt he was nursing a ferocious hangover, as well as—Charles hoped—genuine fear for his life.

  The boy had been shooting himself in the foot for years, but this was the worst. Charles supposed it was lucky that Miss Dane hadn’t said anything about the cocaine arrests. Maybe she didn’t know about those.

  How the hell had she known about any of it, and why had she pinned the knowledge on him? Charles would never have told her. There was no need. He would keep an eagle eye on Bradley to make sure those transgressions were never repeated. Magisters didn’t get involved in drugs or prostitution.

  Such scandals must be kept from the public eye, and that still included Miss Dane. He doubted she would understand.

  It would still be better than explaining his other motivation, which was simply that such ugly things shouldn’t touch her. Let her stay sweet and serene, believing in perfection. Charles, generally a believer in confronting life’s unpleasant truths, would shield her from this one. He could keep her safe.

  So much for that.

  Last night had been relatively peaceful until Bradley’s call. Charles had been in bed, looking over the latest report from Acquisitions. He was interested in an undervalued plastics company. It was as ready for the taking as a broken-winged bird. He’d hoped, a little, that he could dream about that instead of…something else.

  Then the phone rang, and it was his drunken nephew accusing him of ruining his relationship with Sandra Dane “because you couldn’t let me have this one thing, could you? You didn’t pick her out for me, so you had to fuck it up.”

  It was Robert all over again. Charles had corrected Bradley’s strange belief that he was allowed to say such things, and then attempted to call Miss Dane. He didn’t understand what was going on, but it needed to be stopped; she must be made to see reason before she caused a crisis.

  And he had wanted to hear her voice. He’d wanted it so much that it was a visceral thing in him, and he’d wondered if this was how an alcoholic felt every time the wagon bounced.

  So much for that, too. I won’t make trouble for you or your family, she’d texted, and he’d known she was washing her hands of them all. Leaving them. Leaving him.

  This morning Stephen had flapped around, talking about PR and damage control. Rosalie had called and babbled about the same things. Charles had discovered he didn’t give a damn about Bradley, PR, plastics, or anything else.

  And so he had left the city, actively retreated to lick his wounds. He knew Miss Dane would go quietly and without scandal.

  And he had to let her. Charles had felt his self-control unraveling for days. Now there was one less barrier between him and his desire. This was Miss Dane’s final—only—chance to escape him. She’d left Bradley and was now on her own, without the protection their relationship had given her.

  If the vixen was going to jump the fence, she’d better do it now.

  Thus…the cosmic joke. She was right here, prisoner of the weather, because Charles would no more let her get behind the wheel than he’d let her play Russian roulette. Now she was in his house. So very, very close.

  Charles pushed his tray away in disgust and rose to his feet. He was agitated and jittery, and he wouldn’t be a fugitive in his own home. He had to move, work off this restless energy. No doubt Miss Dane was keeping to her room. He might as well head to the study and see how much work his second decorator would have to do.

  At eight o’clock, it was now fully dark outside. The rain still fell, and as he proceeded down the hallway, Charles heard another clap of thunder. He’d always enjoyed storms. He liked their take-no-prisoners violence, their…

  The doorway to the second study was open. Miss Dane stood in the middle of the emptied room. The Persian carpet was already gone. She turned around at his footsteps and didn’t appear surprised to see him. Her earlier anger had vanished, and now she just looked tired.

  Charles had no words. He could only watch her, remembering the night they’d met. He’d thought it would be torture to have her near him, but with another man. Nothing seemed worse, now, than the possibility that she would never be near him at all.

  Take her, then, his darker self whispered. Who’s going to stop you? Who’s going to save her?

  He silenced the voice. He needed to walk away from her. This instant.

  Before he could, she said, “The floorboards are in nice shape.”

  Charles cleared his throat. “I’ll have them sanded and polished.”

  “Great. They’ll be as good as new.”

  “Things can be repaired,” he said. “They can be mended.”

  She looked at him. Then she crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall next to the window. The wallpaper was faded where Bradley’s painting had hung. Charles wondered how she’d destroyed it.

  “Okay,” she said, tilting her head to the side and waiting for him to begin.

  Charles took a deep breath. He could do this. He could have a goddamned civilized conversation with the girl. She deserved that much. He stepped into the study, and began with, “Bradley made foolish mistakes. That doesn’t mean—”

  “I don’t care about Bradley’s lies,” she said. “I care about yours.”

  Charles stared at her. Not two seconds in and she’d confounded him. “Excuse me?”

  She set her jaw. “You knew what he’d done. He said it was only once. Was it?”

  “Yes, there was only one arrest. He—”

  “One arrest. So that was the only time he was ever with a hooker. You’re sure about that?”

  Charles straightened his shoulders. “It’s true as far as I know. Why did you tell him you learned about this from me? How did you learn about this?”

  She scowled, and then it all came out, some story about misunderstandings, and things only half-said, and then Bradley’s unintentional confession. By the end of it, Charles was wondering how many times Bradley had been dropped on his head as an infant. He’d have to ask Rosalie.

  “He thought you’d told me,” she concluded. “He said that you’d taken care of everything. He said you always do.” She wrapped her arms around herself like she’d done in his office, as if trying to hold herself in one piece.

  Charles wanted to help her. He could hold her in his arms, safe and secure. She probably wouldn’t take it well if he tried.

  “It’s my job to protect him,” he said with difficulty. “He’s a Magister.”

  She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh Jesus. Of course he is. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? You couldn’t care less about protecting me.”

  “I couldn’t…what?”

  Miss Dane gave him a savage, wounded look. “It wasn’t just the once. Don’t kid yourself. There’s no way it only happened once. I think he was at a strip club when I called him.”

  “He—” Impossible. There was no way even Bradley could be so stupid. “He couldn’t have been.”

  “There was a girl with him. She asked if he wanted a dance. She called him ‘Braddie’ and ‘baby.’” Miss Dane grabbed herself even tighter. Her eyes sparked with fury. “Your nephew is a fucking liar who put me in danger, and you let him.”

  “Danger?” Charles shook his head. “What are you talking about? Even if he was at…a place like that…how could it put you in da—”

  “Jesus, are you crazy? What planet do you live on? He’s been banging God knows how many women. He could have caught something. He could have given it to me.” She put her hand over her heart. “You knew he wasn’t going to tell me. I don’t care how you feel about your fucking name. I deserved to know about that. I deserved to know.”

  She might as well have slapped him. Such a thing had never crossed his mind. Concerns like that were so far out of his sphere. Bradley’s stupidity had seemed like a legal matter, nothing more.

  But she was right. Of course she was right. Bile rose in his throat. “Are you—” He tugged at his collar, glad he had removed his necktie. “Th
at is…did the two of you…”

  “We used condoms. Every time.” Her gaze slid away from him, toward the opposite wall. She bit her bottom lip and said, “My last exam was two weeks ago, and everything was fine…and we’ve used protection ever since.”

  Relief nearly rendered him boneless. Too bad she’d removed all the chairs; he could have used something to sit on. “Well, thank God for that,” he muttered.

  “Yeah, and no thanks to you.” She held up both hands before he could speak. “No. I don’t want to hear it. You don’t think of people as people, do you? We’re either Magisters or not, and that’s all you care about.”

  Charles stared at the flush sitting high on her cheeks, the quick rise and fall of her chest. He was watching her at a dinner party, pinning her down on a couch, pursuing her across a field.

  “Watch yourself,” he breathed.

  But she didn’t appear to hear his warning. Her accusing look melted into something more bitter. “Relax,” she said. “I told you I wouldn’t make trouble. Just get him tested before he brings some other girl home.” She looked at the floor. He eyed the vulnerable slope of her neck. “You saw me as some weird means to an end. I get it now. That’s over with.”

  “A means to an end,” he said. Blood was roaring in his ears.

  “Yeah. And maybe a good time on the couch.”

  Time seemed to slow to a complete stop. “What?” he asked, remembering how he had chased her across the field until she was the only thing in his line of sight.

  “You heard me.” She placed a trembling hand to her lips. “Oh my God. You kept it from me about Bradley, but you knew the whole time, and you just grabbed me like…I’m a thing to you, right? I’m a toy. What was supposed to happen? I mean, in your head? I was going to marry him, but be your piece on the side?”

  “Get out,” he said.

  Her breath caught. She was shaking and angry and her eyes were so blue. She had approximately five seconds to reach that fence.

  “Get out,” he repeated hoarsely. “Get out of this room.” While she still could.

  She went from red to white. “Don’t worry,” she choked. “I’m getting away from your nephew, and you, and your whole fucked-up family.”

  Then she stormed past him while he kept as still as he could, though his fingers twitched with the urge to seize her. Let her go, his better self insisted, even while it was in the middle of drowning.

  He listened to her heels clacking furiously down the hallway toward her room. In his dream, she’d been barefoot.

  When she was gone, Charles exhaled, feeling as if a rubber band had loosened around his chest. He rubbed his hand across his face and forced himself not to follow her. I’m a toy, she’d said, a thing, believing that he thought her worthless. Believing that he cared nothing for her safety, or her well-being, or her.

  Perhaps that made sense. It must beggar belief that, in the space of a week, she should take root in his heart. He wasn’t supposed to have one, after all.

  Maybe he didn’t. This wasn’t how he’d felt for Eleanor, his partner and friend. Everything about that had been right, as if the stars had aligned. Until she’d died, he thought they must have. After she’d died, he’d never felt that way again. This probably had nothing to do with his heart.

  San—Miss—she’d said she was only a good time on the couch. It should have been that simple. If she were just some girl he found attractive, he’d know how to handle that. Just put it away, like always. This was different. It was different, and she thought he didn’t care.

  It was safer to let her believe that. He should return to his room. Maybe take another cold shower.

  Thunder rumbled once more, pulling him out of his thoughts. How long had he been standing here? Charles left the study and crossed the hall to see the grandfather clock. 8:25. Their conversation could not have lasted longer than a few minutes, surely. Where was his head? Why did everything around him seem so unreal?

  I’m a means to an end. I’m getting away from you.

  As if in a dream, Charles went where he had to go. His feet carried him toward Miss Dane’s bedroom. Whatever else, she must not go away believing that she wasn’t valued, that anyone thought her unworthy. He had to speak to her again, just for a few moments, and correct her misapprehension.

  And that was all. He’d make that clear, and then he’d leave her alone. He could do that; if he set his mind to it, he could do anything.

  As he stalked down the shadowed hallway, Charles listened to the storm. It still raged outside. It showed no sign of letting up.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  By the time she’d finished texting Kristen, saying she wouldn’t be home tonight, Sandra had finished crying too. She hated crying. It was so embarrassing—like she was in third grade all over again, standing in front of that chalkboard while everyone laughed at her. But she couldn’t help it. It had just been such a shitty twenty-four hours, culminating with Mr. Magister telling her to get out while looking at her like she was a stain on the floor. He’d been angry at her for daring to stick up for herself.

  Don’t let him walk all over you. Well, she certainly hadn’t done that, had she? She could be proud of that, at least.

  So much for seeing him happy, though. Caring about him, even a little, had led her to feel this low. She wished she’d never met Bradley. Nothing good had come of it, except maybe the knowledge that things were never what they seemed, and that she was good at wanting things she couldn’t have and that were bad for her anyway.

  She changed into her tank top and yoga pants and thought about getting into bed. It wasn’t even eight thirty yet, but there was no way she was leaving her room again tonight. She could read the book she’d brought. Or she could watch something on the tacky wall-mounted plasma TV.

  Or she could just listen to the storm in the darkness and feel really sorry for herself.

  Sandra sighed, turned off her lamp, and padded over to the fireplace instead, where she flipped the switch to turn it on. Then she took a cushion from a nearby chair and sat on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest while the flames ignited. They leapt hypnotically, but at a low level, reassuring her that everything was under control and nothing was going to run wild. Arnaud had told her she wasn’t the sort of girl to light fires, after all.

  It was going to be okay, she told herself. It hurt like hell, but it was going to be okay. She would bounce back and get her life in order. Maybe it would never be as perfect as she wanted it to be—Arnaud had been right about that, too—but she’d be okay. Eventually. Hopefully.

  Somebody knocked at the door. Sandra blinked. Was it a maid or something? Warrick had said there was only a skeleton staff, but now that Mr. Magister was here, maybe more servants had risen from cryogenic storage or wherever he kept them.

  “Come in,” she called.

  The door opened. Mr. Magister himself stepped in. He closed the door behind him and looked at her sitting in front of the fire, an unreadable expression on his face.

  Sandra felt paralyzed, all of a sudden thrown back into his New York apartment and totally exposed before him. But at least she wasn’t in her underwear, just her pajamas, and…

  “At least you knocked this time,” she said.

  He frowned, looking confused for a moment, before comprehension dawned and he glanced to the side. He coughed. “Ah. Yes.”

  “You know, you never apologized for that.” If she was sticking up for herself, she might as well go for broke.

  He glanced quickly at her, frowning again. “I didn’t know you were in there. I would obviously not have disturbed you if I had.” Sandra pursed her lips. Of course he didn’t get it. But then he added, “Still…if I made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

  She watched him tug at his collar again. She wasn’t sure why he felt the need, since he’d taken off his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. He wore no suit jacket or waistcoat. He’d rolled up his sleeves. It was his house, of course, not his office, but it
still made Sandra’s heart pound to see him so looking so casual. No, not casual. Less…fortified, maybe.

  She found herself looking at his hands again. They had been so warm at the party, and then so rough and firm in his office.

  She swallowed. “Why are you here? You told me to get out.” Less than half an hour ago.

  “That is why I’m here.” He seemed to be having trouble meeting her gaze. He remained by the door. Was he embarrassed? “You said something that was—incorrect. I wanted to…”

  For a moment, he looked into her eyes. Then he looked away again and ran his hand over the back of his head. “Fuck,” he whispered.

  The profanity shocked her. She’d never heard him swear before. He always spoke like a walking, talking etiquette book. It was weird. He was hardly old—his beard and hair were still mostly dark, and he moved with the easy grace of a man in his twenties. Hell, he was over ten years younger than her dad, but sometimes he sounded like he was straight out of the 1950s.

  But tonight his voice was rough, and she saw him grinding his jaw. “You wanted to what?” she asked softly.

  “You said you were—that I saw you as—a means to an end.” He still couldn’t seem to look at her. “That isn’t true. I don’t want you to leave my house.”

  Silence fell. Sandra blinked, sure she must have misheard. Then she managed, “You don’t what?”

  Now he glared at her. “I said, I don’t want you to leave my house believing such a thing. You are more than an asset to my family.”

  She gulped. Don’t say it, don’t say it. “And more than a good time in your office?” Oh shit.

  His eyes widened. This time it seemed as if he couldn’t look away. “Don’t…don’t speak to me about that.”

  “Why not?” She hugged her legs more tightly to herself. Before he left, she had to know. Even though it was so stupid, she had to know this one thing. “Do you do that a lot with women? Is that a Magister thing, too?”